


sfizio

by ballantine (orphan_account)



Category: Ancient History RPF, Rome (TV 2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Not-Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:33:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26454202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ballantine
Summary: “You're my ride?” said Brutus. “Caesar either has a short memory or a newfound sense of humor.”“He has neither, as you well know,” said Antony.
Relationships: Mark Antony/Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	sfizio

**Author's Note:**

> I should be working on NCR 11.2, I know, but this damn idea wouldn't let go of me. And all because I wanted Brutus to be able to smoke a cigarette, smdh.

Between the regional train being an hour late in departing and then mysteriously losing an extra twenty minutes en route, and the local traffic that made one think God had once punished Naples for something but forgot to specify an end date, Brutus expected to find himself waiting at the rail station for his ride for a long time.

He was perhaps even looking forward to it. He needed a moment alone without another voice in his ear (his seatmate on the train had spent an hour on the phone, spiraling into a full-blown screaming match with her mother, who seemed to have far too many opinions about the girl's boyfriend, if you asked Brutus, which no one ever did); he needed a break from the physical dislocation that came with relentless forward motion (he wanted to be perfectly still in all things at all times); and he needed a cigarette.

He had one between his lips the moment he was through the doors of the Centrale station and on the street. He stepped to the side to remove himself from the flow of people and lit up.

Brutus sighed, inhaled, and closed his eyes. He put his head back. This visit was going to be fine, he told himself: it was all going to be _fine_.

“Christ, you look like a vampire,” mused a nearby voice, unmistakably intended for him and hideously familiar. “Is this the first time you've been outside in a year? Two?”

Brutus didn't react except to purse his lips and let out a petulant puff of smoke. Eventually he slit his eyes open and looked over.

Antony stood over at the curb where the street met the piazza; arms akimbo, white smirk and black sunglasses firmly in place. He wore a peach-coloured silk shirt with an open collar, a gold necklace nestled in the dark hair of his chest. His slacks were tight around his thighs. He wasn't wearing socks with his leather loafers.

Brutus deliberately reached up and took hold of his cigarette. He ashed it and crossed his arms, all the while staring silently at Antony, who continued to smile unpleasantly back.

The stalemate lasted half his cigarette before Antony broke and moved forward. Brutus tensed up, but the other man only reached past him to pick up his suitcase.

“I can carry my own luggage,” said Brutus sharply as he straightened.

Antony stopped and affected surprise. “Can you? My mistake, I couldn't think why else you were just standing there like Italy's most dour living statue.”

This close, he could smell his cologne; he'd changed it since they last saw each other in person. Brutus decided he hated it.

“You're my ride?” said Brutus, pinching off the cigarette and carefully putting it in his pocket, to Antony's wrinkle-nosed disgust. “Caesar either has a short memory or a newfound sense of humor.”

“He has neither, as you well know,” he said. He looked away. “An... issue came up in one of the offices. I was the only one in the vicinity free, so.”

Brutus wondered if that meant something; if Antony happened to be free or if he was closer to unemployed. He cleared his throat. “I could have taken a bus.”

Antony's eyebrows rose. “Now who has a new sense of humor?” He glanced around the crowded piazza. “Come on. The schedule said five trains were due to arrive soon, and I'd like to get my car out of its spot before it becomes physically impossible.”

He turned away without another word or looking to see if he was followed. For a few seconds, Brutus was tempted with a childish impulse to walk in the opposite direction – but his laptop and books were in the suitcase. He gritted his teeth and started walking.  
  


* * *

  
He could see why Antony was concerned about getting parked in; he had parked his vintage little death trap – the tangerine terror of the tangenziale, the famed Fulvia – flagrantly up on a little triangle of sidewalk, where it was surrounded on two sides by a taxi and food truck.

_It's a 1974 Lancia Fulvia Coupe 3. I got a great deal on it._

_You mean they paid you to take it away?_

Brutus stopped walking. “I'm not getting in that thing.”

Antony had already pulled the driver's seat down to put his suitcase in the back. He paused and looked over the top of the car, annoyed. It hadn't even been ten minutes, and he was annoyed with Brutus. “What now? Why?”

“Does it even have airbags?” he demanded. “Airbags that aren't four decades old, I mean.”

He remembered when Antony first procured the car. It had needed a whole new engine, new tires. The seats had been a fright of scabbed leather, rusted springs, and moth-eaten foam.

Antony tossed the suitcase into the car with needless force and put the seat back again. He leaned over the open door; sun glinted off the spotless metal trim of the door's window, the thick rings on his fingers. Brutus felt a migraine coming on.

“Brutus,” said Antony, dragging his sunglasses down to pin him with a dark look that made Brutus go still, “if you don't get into this car in the next ten seconds, I'm going to leave you here. I'll leave you here and throw your—” ( _get off the fuckin' sidewalk_ , said a passing pedestrian; _go fuck your mother_ , replied Antony without missing a beat.) “I will throw your suitcase into the bay.”

He would, too. From any other man, it would be an exaggeration, a meaningless threat. Still – Brutus was as stubborn in the face of pressure as Antony was ruthless in applying it. He stared at Antony, and saw the moment he decided to switch tack.

“Look, you don't need airbags in the Fulvia,” he said, practically petting the roof. “The Fulvia takes care of you – but, since you're so worried, I will tell you that I had airbags installed four years ago.”

Brutus waited a second longer and then looked away, lips tightening. He silently crossed the sidewalk and stood waiting beside the passenger door.

Antony shoved his sunglasses back up his nose, flashed him a cold smile, and ducked into the car. A moment later, the lock on the passenger door clicked, and Brutus got inside.  
  


* * *

  
There were many reasons he resented being forced to ride in Antony's car, this specific car. The concern about the airbags was real, but he also remembered all-too-well the tight little space of the front, the way the smell of Antony filled the air, the narrow bench seat with its soft-as-butter leather that seemed to radiate heat back at one's body, causing one to shift in place, but one could not shift silently in that car – even good leather creaks – and such audible restlessness inevitably drew the eye of the driver.

And oh, the driver.

Dark hair ruffling over his forehead in the wind. One dark forearm propped up on the open window, fingers tapping absently at the rim, the other on the gearshift inches away; tendons flexing as he gripped and released the shift knob. Fluid, thoughtless. His eyes elsewhere – at least until one shifted on the seat.

Brutus couldn't see his eyes behind the sunglasses, but he could see everything else. The tightness of his jaw, the way his entire body startled for a split second into stillness. The front seat was too small for a mutual awareness not to fill it.

Luckily, the charged moment passed, because after Antony merged into traffic, Brutus was reminded the _other_ reason he didn't want to ride with him.  
  


* * *

  
“Oh, fuck,” said Brutus, his foot pressing down hard in the foot well, as if a brake pedal would miraculously materialize there and allow him to save himself.

“You need,” said Antony, turning the wheel with one hand and whipping them around a corner at speeds that should only be allowed with the assistance of trick camera work and some good editing, “to relax.”

“Fuck you.”

“Laconic, as always.”

“Maybe _you_ don't have anything to live for, Antony, but some of us do, would you – Jesus, slow down—”

Antony obliged by bringing the Fulvia to heart-pounding halt as they came up to a red light at a six-way intersection. Brutus's body wasn't equipped with such good brakes, and he was flung forward, only to be stopped just as abruptly by Antony's arm, flung across his front.

Brutus's chest hurt slightly: incipient heart attack or Antony's arm, hard as rebar – who was to say? He gasped and blinked. Antony took his arm away after a moment.

“You should probably buckle up,” he said lightly, looking away to eye the crosswalk countdown to their left. “Safety first, Brutus.”

His scathing reply was lost as the light turned green and the Fulvia's engine roared. They leapt forward once more.  
  


* * *

  
Once they'd emerged from the hellish tangle of traffic of the Old City into the still hellish, but higher speeds traffic of the outer boroughs, Brutus forced himself to relax. He hunched down in his seat. He put his knees up against the dash – stupid, tiny car – and dug out a cigarette.

Antony glanced over. “Don't you fucking dare.”

“What are you going to do,” Brutus muttered around the cigarette, it's unlit tip bobbing with the words, “crash the car?”

He rolled down the window and sparked his lighter.

In response, Antony plowed across two lanes of traffic, eliciting a small explosion of car horns and screamed expletives, and fit the Fulvia onto the shoulder of the road. He jerked it into park. Before Brutus could demand to know what he was doing _now_ , Antony preempted the question by switching his grip from the gearshift to Brutus's dick.

They stared at each other. Smoke curled up from the cigarette and winnowed its way out the cracked window.

“Throw that out the window,” said Antony, “and I'll stop.”

This wouldn't have happened, Brutus thought blankly, if he'd picked him up in a fucking Panda. 

Not even an hour and here they were. He'd known Antony for ten years and never had learned a trick to dealing with him; sometimes he thought maybe there wasn't one, there was no skeleton key or master control panel to the randomized gears that made up the man's decision-making. 

Except Caesar was able to do something with him. A neat refutation of all Brutus's excuses and rationalizations. It still burned.

While Antony was a known-unknown in all situations, Brutus should have at least been able to account for that, counterbalance it in some way – but when Antony did something inexplicable and outrageous, he only ever seemed to have one response.

He took the cigarette from his mouth, movement unhurried. Antony's gaze was hidden by his sunglasses, but his attention was heavy and intent upon tracking the trajectory of his hand.

That response? Escalation. Brutus's pride never made allowances for backing down. 

He tapped the cigarette against the window. A few millimeters of ash detached and fell. Brutus put the cigarette back in his mouth. Antony's hand tightened fractionally over an unmistakable interest stirring in his lap. Antony's lips thinned.

Brutus blew the next lungful of smoke into his face.

Antony reared back, cursing, his hand lifting instinctively to wave the smoke away. Brutus immediately curled his legs to his chest, locking up all his defenses. He watched Antony with narrow eyes and continued to suck spitefully on his cigarette.

“Jesus,” said Antony, glancing at him and away. His sunglasses had slid down again, and his eyes looked a little wild. “You are such a – _Jesus_.”

“Are we going to sit on this road for the rest of the day?” asked Brutus, observing the heavy traffic continuing to speed past them.

Antony threw him a glare. His hand returned to the gearshift.

They continued on their way.  
  


* * *

  
“Why'd you even come down here?” asked Antony. “You hate Naples.”

Brutus chewed on his cheek, considering and rejecting several responses before deciding upon: “At the moment, I hate Rome more.”

Antony glanced over; the sun had gone down enough that even he could not get away with continuing to wear his sunglasses, and so every glance had become weighted, with no barrier between them to filter the burden. 

“And would this have anything to do with the rumours that you're going to stand for an assembly seat in the next election?” Brutus folded his arms and avoided his eyes. Antony gave a faint scoffing noise. “Of course. Servilia at it again, huh. You know, when I think about what I could do if I had someone like that in my corner....”

“Oh please,” said Brutus, before he could stop himself, “spare me the chiding of your scrappy orphan work ethic. I get it enough from everyone else.”

Antony only laughed. Brutus caught his eye and frowned.

“What?” he asked, when Antony was still chuckling intermittently a minute later. “What is so funny?”

“Oh, you know... coming to visit Julius Caesar and expecting to remain above the fray.” In the twilight, his grin looked unnaturally sharp, like it could break skin with an easy bite. “Only you, Brutus. Only you.”  
  


* * *

  
Even in the dark, Brutus could recognize the signs they were approaching Caesar's estate. The lights of the house in the distance were a giveaway. So, too, was the armed checkpoint they passed through.

“And you wonder why I don't want to live like this,” said Brutus, as the guard waved them through and Antony shifted into second.

“I do, yeah,” he said. “I mean, you've seen his house.”

“His prison, you mean. Man lives under the constant paranoia of assassination – look,” said Brutus abruptly, “pull over, will you? Before we get to the front gate?”

Antony obeyed instantly, steering easily over to the side of the drive. 

“Switch off your lights.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Sighing, Antony reached up and killed his headlights. They sat in the dark, listening to the noise of the grounds creep close through the open windows. The lights of the house in the distance seemed brighter than ever, now that the car had gone dark. Brutus peered forward through the windshield at it, nerves jumping.

Antony scratched his jaw. After a minute, he said, irritated, “Look, what is—”

Brutus leaned over and kissed him. For a second, the world outside the car went away, and all he had in the world was the feeling of Antony's lips, startled and warm. 

Then Antony shoved him back.

Brutus's shoulder blades hit the door – stupid, tiny car – and he said, plaintively, “Ow.”

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” demanded Antony.

Face burning, he shuffled himself around so he was facing forward once more and crossed his arms tightly. “You were going to jerk me off an hour ago,” he said, the words somehow coming out accusing.

“So?”

“ _So_ , I think the better question, really, is what's the matter with—”

“That's completely different and you know it.”

They fell silent. Brutus tried not to look like he was either fuming or humiliated, though of course he was both these things. He ran a hand over his face, like the emotions were filth he might wipe away.

“Can I keep driving now?” asked Antony, and there was something off-balance and a little hysterical beneath his trademark sneer. “Can we just get there already, or do you want to, fucking – hold my hand, or I don't know, ask me to marry you—”

“Go,” snapped Brutus, “Jesus, let's go. Just,” he shut his eyes for a moment longer than a blink and said, more quietly, “Let's just go.”

He could feel Antony watching him for a few seconds longer, but then the Fulvia's lights came back on, obliterating the darkness and making the car once more visible to any who might be looking for them. Antony shifted out of park and these eased up the long, winding drive. 

In the distance, up in his large, brightly-lit house, Caesar was waiting.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd apologize for turning Fulvia into a car, but look: [the Italians did it first](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lancia_Fulvia), okay?


End file.
